


The Pros and Cons of Becoming A Robot

by Newtavore



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Family Bonding, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Introspection, Over Lit Matches, Rick Sets Things On Fire While Morty Babysits, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 12:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5829049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I bet gasoline tastes bad.”</p><p>He snorts, letting his head loll to the side.</p><p>"Robots don't have tastebuds, stupid."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pros and Cons of Becoming A Robot

**Author's Note:**

> first rick and morty fanfic, so it's short and choppy and shit, but the fandom's lacking in fics so i thought i'd cough something up for general perusal 
> 
> if you love yourself you'll listen to Gasoline by Halsey, which was a major inspiration for this fic

Light flares in the darkness of the garage before it’s snuffed out once again, the spent corpse of a match dropping down to the desk. 

 

_ The striking surface of safety match boxes contain red phosphorus and an abrasive substance. When struck, a small amount of white phosphorus is produced, which ignites the wood base of the safety match, producing a temporary flame-  _

 

Strike. Light flares, then dies, like everything else in the goddamn universe. 

 

_ 16KCl _ _ 3 _ _ \+ 3P _ _ 4 _ _ S _ _ 3 _ _ \-- > 16 KCl + 9SO _ _ 2 _ \- 

 

Strike. Light flares, and he drops the dying match to the table, staring down at the mess of burnt, shriveled little sticks littering the steel surface. 

 

“Why do you hang out with me, Morty?”

 

His voice sounds unfamiliar to his own ears, hoarse and raspy, dry. There’s a flask full of god knows what less than a foot away, but he waits, hands shaking as he strikes another match, holding the little stick between thin fingers as he waits for the boy to respond. 

 

“Because.”

 

It’s not an answer. It’s not an answer, and that little voice in the back of his head that screams for knowledge even after all this time shrieks into the void, irritation and curiosity both digging their pointy fingers into the meat of his brain as the heat starts to trigger the nerve endings along the skin of his hand. 

 

_ Thermal nociceptors, which are cells specialized to detect noxious heat and burns, start to fire at temperatures that begin to cause pain- around 45°C- and increase firing frequency in parallel with increasing pain sensation-  _

 

“Rick, drop the match.”

 

Absently, he ponders the possibility of a device that could turn pain receptors on and off at will. To turn off sensory neurons, toss them out the fucking window, so to speak. Absently, he wonders if that would stop all the pain, or just the physical shit. The thought can’t keep his attention long enough for him to consider it a new project.

 

“Rick.”

 

Small hands wrap around his own, wet fingers snuffing out the light and sending them both into darkness once again. The pain fades, slowly, external temperatures dropping a degree at a time till action potentials stop firing off notices to his brain that his skin is being scorched. 

 

“I hang out with you because you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like I’m… Like I’m… y’know. Like I can’t understand.”

 

That’s an answer, but it’s a stupid one. 

 

Complacent education standards make his skin crawl, and he scowls, twisting his reddened hand blindly in the dark; fingers twine with his own and he clutches, thin limbs trembling as he reaches sightlessly across the desk for the tiny silver answer to all his problems. 

 

“You’re an idiot, but you still have a functioning fucking brain, Morty,” he stutters out, tossing back a large gulp of fire, eyes sliding half shut as it scorches away imperfections, smoothing out the world and his mind and slo w i n g e v e r y t h i n g d o w n.

 

“You know how they think,” his grandson says, voice soft, systematically crushed down by complacency and conformity, by the rigorous, rigid demands his peers force on him, and Rick has to take another gulp to s l o w everything down a little more, rage bubbling untended under the calm surface of alcoholic bliss. 

 

“Not like you,” he huffs, shaking his head as he stares down at the desk, the barest hint of light reflecting off the steel surface- 

 

_ The reflectivity of a surface is the ratio of reflected power to incident power. The reflectivity is a material characteristic, depends on the wavelength, and is related to the refractive index of the material through  _ [ _ Fresnel's equations _ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fresnel%27s_equations) _. In absorbing materials, like metals, it is related to the electronic absorption spectrum through the imaginary component of the complex refractive index- _

 

“Like us,” he corrects, gaze shifting from the desk to their hands, his own pallid skin standing out in sharp relief against Morty’s, barely visible to his slowly adjusting eyes. 

 

“They think like- like fucking animals, Morty, like codependent little lapdogs- they think in straight lines, they can’t comprehend-”

 

“They think like normal people.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

He stares at their hands and thinks about how much easier existence would be if he weren’t human. If he were something else, something resistant to the vices of the universe, something that could speak and be understood by someone other than a fourteen year old boy, something that could function properly without the slippery ease of alcoholic libation. 

 

“I wanna be a robot.”

 

Morty blinks at him, and he wonders if the reflection of light off the surface of an eyeball could be considered specular, diffuse, or both. He wonders about the human body, about wires and computer chips and code, about fuel and efficiency and logical thought. About losing emotion, creativity, about gaining clarity of thought and steadiness of hand. 

 

“Would it be worth it?” Morty asks, gentle fingers prying the flask from his grasp; he watches, hand limp as the lets the cool metal slip from his grip, shrugging. He knows what the kid is asking, he knows Morty knows he understands- they came to the same thought at the same time. 

 

Compatible brainwaves. His high, Morty’s low, each dip corresponding to a rise, opposite but compatible, equal. He wonders if any of the other Ricks have realized what, exactly, they have in their grasp,  if they’ve realized how fucking special the kid sitting beside him is, how he could be so easily taught, so easily guided. 

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Thin, flexible metal for the heart. Copper, brass, gold. 

 

“I bet gasoline tastes bad.”

 

He snorts, letting his head loll to the side, thumb stroking over the sharp juts of Morty’s knuckles. Kid’s too thin- he’ll have to take him somewhere, some dumb planet with lots of gross, interesting shit to try, all kinds of food and all that garbage. Despite his weight, though, he’s warm. Warmer than Rick, certainly- nearly hot, the touch of his hand reminding the man of the match pinched between his fingers, slowly creeping down to touch the tips, igniting nerve endings like dry tinder.

 

“Robots don’t have tastebuds, stupid.”

 

The words slurr, tongue tripping against his teeth- _ t-t-tastebu-Uds _ . He uses his free hand to wipe at his mouth, scowling down at the damp spot on his sleeve like he can glare the drool into nonexistence. 

 

“They don’t have hearts, either.”

 

_ The tricuspid valve and the mitral valve make up the atrioventricular valves, which connect the atria and the ventricles. The pulmonary semi-lunar valve separates the right ventricle from the pulmonary artery, and the aortic valve separates the left ventricle from the aorta. The heartstrings, or chordae tendinae, anchor the valves to heart muscles _ -

 

His hand slides down to touch his own chest, the steady beat-beat-beat of the organ pounding like a drum against his sternum, nearly bradycardic. Morty’s pulse is fast and irregular against his fingers, hand clenched so tight around Rick’s that he can feel each beat of his fluttering heart. 

 

“Is it worth it?”

 

Would it be worth it? To trade out his weak, mortal body for something sturdier than flesh, for smooth metal and measured actions, clear-headed and logical? To trade out basic sustenance for simple fuels? To give up free will to coded responses? To sacrifice the emotions he feels, the emotions he refuses to admit exist, in return for... stability, maybe?

 

_ You are part of a machine, you are not a human being. _

 

“No.”

 

His hand slides down to the surface of the desk. 

 

Strike. Light flares.  16KCl 3 \+ 3P 4 S 3 \--> 16 KCl + 9SO 2 . White phosphorus ignites, wood burns, fingers scorch, light dies. 

 

Just like everything else in the fucking universe. 


End file.
